


my heart is sinking too

by svpportive



Category: Broadchurch
Genre: Banter, Being Kind to Each Other, Comfort, Communication, F/M, Post-Canon, Sharing a Bed, Stress, up to u honestly whether thats post-s2 or 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-14
Updated: 2019-09-14
Packaged: 2020-10-18 13:22:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20639861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/svpportive/pseuds/svpportive
Summary: theories into eaten words; hardy and miller talking without talking.





	my heart is sinking too

**Author's Note:**

> me w a spray bottle: try again. say something real  
hardy: mill-  
me, squirting him in the fuckign eye: try again
> 
> month 2 of being incapable of letting go of broadchurch. literally pair my recent insomnia with the fact that i see olivia colman when i close my eyes and u get this, which i wrote the bulk of at 3am (which is why this is like all purple prose and sleepy sentences). wish these bitches would just talk 2 each other but noooo theyre too "tender" n "closed off emotionally" for that huh

The thing is.

She has too many vices, too many open wounds. There’s a missing child case that lasts a harrowing two and a half weeks. All hope had been lost and then some, but they find the boy, alive if barely conscious, at 6am that Thursday morning.

They’re short-staffed, so she goes into the last stage alone. She takes his statement as well as she can in her bleary state and once it’s all over, around four hours later, stands in the kitchenette and wills herself to swallow the stubborn lump that’s formed in her throat.

It’s almost working.

“Miller.”

She turns to face him. His mouth is downturned and his expression is as surly as ever, but his eyes betray the question.

“You did good.”

She nods. The lump passes before she can think about how somewhere along the way, she’s picked up another vice.

The thing was.

They worked on a cycle. Another case opened. They attempted to solve it, and go through the trials that come with putting all of yourself into work that isn’t kind and isn’t forgiving and often hit too close to what you hold dear.

She found him watching videos of Daisy when she was young, sitting underneath his desk with his office door shut.

_ I’m sorry that joy is sparse here_, she didn't say. “Want to go for ice cream?”

He looked up at her, pocketed the mobile, and refused her hand to get to his feet. It wasn’t even lunchtime yet.

“Fine.”

She took him to the pier and bored him to death with stories about Tom’s first year at uni over 99s. He was scowling when they returned to work and she marked it a success.

The case closed. Another one opened.

She has her guesses.

Her work was a lot of things, but it boiled down to being able to cut through the unnecessary bits - the lies, the drama, the emotions - and salvage and focus on what actually mattered.

And when it came to what actually mattered, it turns out that there are just some things that they didn’t need said. Not out loud at least.

With Joe - and really not just Joe, but every relationship she’d ever had previous, romantic or not - vocal affirmations were foundational. They were freely given. Those three words especially; they bookended practically every conversation she had. 

That’s not the case in the ones that she has with him.

But it isn’t necessary, no gap is left unfilled, and so they cut through and around that to what mattered. What was quicker, and what they could both understand immediately. With them it didn’t need saying.

He must believe.

She was afraid. To be hurt again, to be misled again. For the tone to be wrong, for the possibility of something misheard. Of the complications of things transforming, whether they’d have to transform back, and of being left with the pieces. All for something that perhaps wasn’t worth it.

He wouldn’t be wrong. He probably agrees.

They both revolve around it regardless.

Reaching the door but not going in. Going to the river but not taking a drink. Inhaling but not exhaling.

Gravity has to come in sometime.

And when it does, it looks like this.

She makes an offhand comment about not wanting to leave their tabletop timeline, even as late as it was and as tired as she was. And he says something that is dangerously close to _ saying _ something.

“Then don’t.”

They’d been working for about 17 hours straight at this point, so it wasn’t completely out of the realm for her to be hearing things. Dreaming things. She really should be heading home.

“Sorry?”

Hardy grimaces. “I mean- You could stay over. If you wanted. I can take the sofa.”

She can’t even attempt to guess what he’s thinking, but can see the mild panic behind his eyes, at his ears, even as he remains unflinching and stiff. She can feel it too, rising behind her ribs.

“Oh no, I wouldn’t want to be a bother.”

“It’s nothing.” A beat. “Honestly, Miller, you’ve had your eyes half-closed for the past hour, I don’t know if I trust you behind the wheel anyhow.”

“I’ll walk then.”

Her eyes darted behind him, to his sliding door where the blue night stretched on. Oh, but it was probably rather chilly, and it would be a hassle to put back on all the layers she’d removed.

She meets his eyes again.

He shakes his head. She searches hers for another excuse.

There’s no point. They both know what she’s going to say.

“Alright.” Something catches up with her. “But you’re not taking the sofa. I’m not kicking you out of your own bed, for God’s sake.”

Hardy huffs. “Just take the damn bed - you complain about your back enough as it is. Do you want something to sleep in?” He doesn’t wait for an answer before stalking to his bedroom.

They’ve only got the one light on, and as he moves toward the hallway it follows him until it can’t anymore. Still, she calls after him, “I’ll take a shirt but I’m not stepping a foot into your bedroom.”

He comes back and hands her something neatly folded. Neither of them make eye contact.

He’s given her a sweater, blue and similar to one she’s got at home but with longer sleeves and somehow cozier. The smell is familiar, but it’s never been so close. Ginger, and the crisp cleanness of detergent. Something else unnameable but equally familiar. She takes a deep breath before leaving the bathroom she’d changed in and walking back into the living room.

He’s throwing a blanket onto the sofa and trying to make it comfortable, his back to her. She marches over and slaps him in the arm.

“Stop that. You won’t even fit on the damn thing anyway, with your long limbs.”

He grumbles. “It’ll be fine, Miller, I can handle my own sofa for a night. Just go.”

Something breaks within her. Her sanity, perhaps, but in her defense he’d started it.

“We could just share the bed? We’ve done it before, and it can’t have been more awkward than it was then.” On the heels of being accused of an affair during a murder trial, neither of them say.

He looks at her. 

“We’re both so tired anyways, it won’t even matter.”

She stares back. He swallows, nods, blinks.

“Alright.”

They walk to his bedroom, single-file, quiet. He opens the door for her. Bit weird, that, but this is all a bit weird. More than a bit. If she thinks about it too much she might start giggling out of hysteria and sleep deprivation.

His room is sparsely decorated, like she could have imagined, but there are some sweet pictures of him and Daisy on the nightstand, as well as a few mystery novels that look to be generally well-thumbed through. A full legal pad with an uncapped pen next to an industrial looking alarm clock. The red numbers blare_ 3:07 _ at her.

They get into bed side by side, her on the left just like all those years ago, him on her right, joining her under the covers this time. His mattress is better than hers. He bids her goodnight and she does the same and the lights are turned out.

He settles in with a weary sigh and she looks to the ceiling. She can feel his warmth next to her. Still a bit weird but. Nice, as well. Comforting. The smell of ginger and detergent surrounds her and it’s not altogether unpleasant at all.

The night goes quiet, his slow breathing syncing up with hers, whether intentional or not. Her thoughts begin to slow as well.

Whatever the reasons things with them went without saying for this long, they’ve chosen to push past them tonight. It makes something unfurl in her chest, and settle.

Chances are, there couldn’t be too much trouble in pushing a little further.

She finds his hand underneath the sheets, laid on his chest. He lets her entwine their fingers and rubs his thumb over her hand once, but otherwise doesn’t stir.

“Thank you,” she says in a breath.

“Wha’ for,” it’s a mumble and a whisper, the question mark buried in sleep.

_ For letting me stay, for the company, for being there and here and wherever I need you. _

She closes her eyes.

The next morning, she wakes up earlier and makes them both tea.

“Miller,” he says, as he takes the cup from her, first word of the day, firm eye contact that betrays a wide range of emotions, all of them readable. “Thank you.”

She nods, and smothers her smile with her mug. It was a start.

**Author's Note:**

> title is from in your eyes by miss kylie minogue again duh bc that song is the epitome of this fic. also fever (2001) slaps. sorry if this isn't shippy or whatever enough, im just obsessed w the idea of something that is both more than friends and more than lovers , that is closer to soulmates. they're on the verge, but there's no pressure.  
ALSO someone on tumblr sent me an ask abt making art for a fic and YES YES idk where u went i accidentally deleted it like the shit i am but YES
> 
> im [svpportive](https://svpportive.tumblr.com/) on tumblr so come say hi if u liked this !! if u didnt u can still come say hi i guess


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